Fido's Fork

A fork and a chopstick
fist fight on the street
out front the café.

Fork pouncing, chopstick dodging
tines tingling on the cement
chipping bending.

The fork falls
to a thin bamboo stick
wearing a white Hachimaki
placid and plain.

I decide on the chopsticks
flipping, shoveling,
slicing like scissors
my food.

I am using the utensils with
the highest learning curve in
the western world.

My dog can use a fork
I saw him once,
fork between digits,
stabbing kibbles and bits like
a fearsome animal that he is not.

Afraid of antler lamps
with rawhide skin-shades
swearing by the panic of his bark
that the lamp will sooner gore you
than light.

With no opposable thumbs,
he can’t drive a car,
or whittle a tree down to a
pair of chopsticks.

The chopsticks remain mine
but I have given
my silverware to my dog.